when wet cheeks crash against

the seat and hazel eyes drip down

​

her words--childhood slamming

against the car like wind

the reason Alex told me he couldn’t slide himself in.
I understand.
On a couch, we’d drained the whiskey--
apple spiced and swirled cinnamon.

I like to hide them there
so that the dismantling work we do
in therapy doesn't have to include
me.

The lifeblood of the culture.
Beauty in non-solidity. Doorbells
that ring like knocks on wood.